Aid in Rein: How a Czech National Allegedly Preys on Tanzania’s Humanitarian Weakness

When Jakub Jahl first arrived in Moshi in 2018, the villagers saw him as a saviour. He was tall, fair-skinned and soft-spoken, always wearing a gentle smile and carrying sweets for children. He spoke passionately about helping orphans, about feeding hungry children and building a centre where the poor could find hope, food and learning.

“He looked like an angel,” said Theresa, a mother of four. “He said he wanted to give children food and schooling. We thought he was a good man.”

And for a while, that was what everyone believed. To European donors, Jahl was the face of compassion, a man turning pity into purpose. His social media pages were filled with barefoot children eating bowls of rice, chasing footballs and smiling beneath captions that read like redemption stories. To those abroad, he seemed proof that kindness could cross continents.

But whispers began to spread. Some parents said their children spoke of strange things, of locked rooms, injections that made them dizzy and cries heard at night. A few parents quietly withdrew their children. Others stayed silent, afraid of losing his support or offending someone who seemed too powerful to question.

By 2025, silence broke. A viral documentary on YouTube titled The Victims of Jakub Jahl in Africa flooded the internet with testimonies from villagers, volunteers and alleged victims. What emerged was not the story of a humanitarian but of a predator hiding behind charity.

Accounts differ on when Jahl actually arrived. Some say 2018, others 2019, but everyone agrees on how he worked. He joined local NGOs such as the Nature and Skills Centre, claiming to be a volunteer with connections and funding from Prague and Bratislava.

“He came with two children, Abdul and Xaudi,” recalled Bob, a former staff member. “He said he wanted to pay their school fees and give them a home. We thought God had sent us a blessing.”

At first, he seemed generous. He bought supplies, paid for food and covered medical bills. His access to foreign donors made him appear credible. But soon, unease grew. “He was too close to the children,” Bob said quietly. “Always touching, always wanting them to sleep near him.” Staff noticed, but few dared to confront him. “He had money. We needed it. People respected him too much to ask questions.”

Then came the stories of abuse. Children spoke of being called into his room at night and of doors locked from the inside. A girl, now 14, said she was only 10 when he first raped her. Some boys said he paid them for sex and forced them to keep quiet.

“He would laugh while stabbing some children with knives,” one villager claimed. “He said it was a game. But the children cried.”

Theresa remembered seeing syringes in his possession. “That’s when I became afraid,” she said. “He was not just helping. He was doing things to children.”

A local translator, Joseph, remembered his time working with Jakub. “He gave children money for sex. When I asked where he got the money, he said, ‘From the Whites in my country.’ He was using their donations to destroy our children.”

If abuse was one crime, fraud was another. Witnesses said Jahl ran a web of deception, using children’s suffering to raise money. He posted staged photos of malnourished kids and collected donations from sympathetic Europeans.

“People in Europe see African children with open hearts and empty stomachs,” said Monika Surinova, a Czech woman familiar with his tactics. “He knew this. He asked for money for food, but the children never saw it.”

The so-called “Czech Slovak African Project” turned out to be little more than a rented building where children gathered. There was no registered orphanage, no school licence, no financial records, only a mirage of compassion.

Beyond physical and financial abuse, survivors described psychological control. “He made the children fear him,” Bob said. “If they disobeyed, he punished them. He made them believe he was their only hope.” Others recalled being stripped, humiliated or locked in the dark.

A Spanish blog investigating the story put it simply: “He created a culture of silence. Through drugs, fear and punishment, he made sure that even if the children wanted to speak, they could not.”

When The Victims of Jakub Jahl in Africa hit YouTube, everything changed. The film compiled hours of testimony from victims and witnesses. It spread quickly across TikTok, Reddit and X, igniting outrage. Online commentators called him a manipulator, a fraudster and a violent abuser. “Among his victims were children aged eight to fourteen,” wrote World Disinformation Watch on LinkedIn. The outrage went global.

Yet even as the claims grew louder, official confirmation was missing. There was no BBC or Reuters coverage, no Tanzanian police statement, no Czech court filing. A Czech NGO called Chance4Children suggested the allegations might be smear-driven. The Atman Yoga Federation accused him of extremist behaviour online, but also mentioned his psychiatric history.

The lack of verified evidence raised uneasy questions. Were all the claims true? Were some exaggerated? Could rival agendas be involved? What remained clear was that Jakub Jahl had become a deeply divisive figure, seen by some as a sadist and by others as a disturbed man caught in scandal.

Tanzania’s laws are clear about child abuse and exploitation, but enforcement is weak, especially in rural areas like Moshi. “A mzungu with money can do as he pleases,” one villager said bitterly. The imbalance of power between locals and foreigners leaves many cases buried.

The story also exposes a darker side of what people call voluntourism, where foreigners arrive to teach or build under the name of charity but exploit vulnerable communities instead. From Cambodia to Nepal, fake orphanages and sexual abuse scandals have shown the risks of unregulated aid work.

Online, Jahl’s case became a digital courtroom. Every post, video and comment served as either witness or verdict. Social media amplified both truth and misinformation, turning justice into a noisy public spectacle.

The legal complexities remain daunting. Cross-border abuse cases are difficult to prosecute. Evidence collected in rural Tanzania might not meet Czech legal standards, and language barriers make testimonies harder to use. Human rights advocates have called for stronger international systems to hold such perpetrators accountable.

For now, Jakub Jahl’s fate remains uncertain. The allegations are haunting, the testimonies detailed, yet official justice is still out of reach.

To villagers in Moshi, he remains the foreigner who came with promises and left them with pain. To European donors, a reminder of how easily compassion can be twisted. And to the humanitarian world, a warning of what happens when oversight fails.

“Prison is not punishment enough for Jakub,” Bob said. “He destroyed children’s lives. He destroyed trust. He destroyed hope.”

Until justice, whether legal or historical, finally arrives, Jakub Jahl stands as the face of betrayal hidden behind charity.

Editor’s note: This investigation was originally reported by Markéta Vacková and rewritten by Jerome Kalu for a cross-publication.

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